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kiraman · 3 months

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Killing Strangers PART III.

PART I & PART II.

JOHN WICK AU. death/grief/sex/gore/ extreme violence cw / Mizu x female oc

wordcount: 13,394 / soundtrack 1 & 2

disclaimer & a spoiler to put minds at ease about everything that is about to go down in this story, skip if you don't care to know, click here & for author notes if you want to know (you should. related to her romantic interest in the story)

“I who would love and be loved am hated loathed despised; I am the wound and the gun, the bullet and the slaughter; the monster and the bed; the blood in your mouth, the bitter, and the lonely, the body in your bed; i bring the Death and the Life, the ecstasy and the ruin. I am the victim and the guilty; the savage and the trapped. I am the bitter and the howling, the angry and the mouth that screams its rage between your legs. You ask me to look under your bed for the thing that haunts you, fills your throat with soundless cries; you fear it, you fear it; I do not want to but I do; for you I look; when I do, I find myself looking back at me, the hideous monster preying in the shadows. The atrocious loneliness of the monster.

Let my hands be filled with blood; give me the strength to kill them - or let me die and as I die I would find a better way for existing and ceasing to exist. I would find a better way to take and give and fill my empty body with fury; release me now from my soul-binding cage wherein I touch but never hold, find but never stay, join but never belong.”

Afterwards, it is all a blur, her blood pumping violently, a raging torrent that streams over her and pulls her down down down, drowns her in its dark depths; it's blood on her mouth and smoke in their lungs; it's the neon lights spluttering, the C of the Cabinet tearing off the signboard and crashing onto the street as the flames burst through the windows, glass shattering, and metal crumpling, all in less than a second, raining glass and splinters of wood, something metallic over their heads.

Afterwards, it's all a deep, violent silence that descends upon her, dark and inescapable, like a flood, filling every empty space inside of her with its fury; she can't see past the itch that rashes at her throat, the urgency, the flurry of smoke that swallows Geraldine, Geraldine, sank on her knees and screaming; she has never heard anyone scream like this, she thinks, and all her blood rushes to her throat, turns to ice, feeling the time, that small window of opportunity to crawl through and away from this and what is coming, ticking by; in the distance, a siren goes off, pulling her back to the reality of the moment, warning bells ringing. Somewhere near them, the sky explodes with fireworks and Mizu, suspended between the now and the end of the line that she can see in her mind, that perfect, frantic urgency that calls to her to fucking move, get away, do something, what must be done; through the shock that blurs her senses, she moves, grabs at Geraldine's shoulders, and drags her to the car, more senses than registers the sudden downpour that comes pouring over the city, fills the gutters and drains as Mizu drives furiously away; not looking back for those who come for them; those who will come; her mind goes blank, goes empty; she only sees what must be done; that clear, bright line that she follows through the blackness that swarms her vision, blood pounding, death on her hands and ashes in her mouth; she only sees the end of it— getting away and to safety.

Geraldine is numb in her hands when she swerves the car around and drives down to the port, parks the car on the docks and gets out, gets both of them out, tosses their phones into the ocean; she is a dark shadow blotting out the light around her as she gathers her in her arms, shakes her into the moment, her hands rough on her shoulders, but Geraldine does not react, she does not see her and Mizu spits out a fuck under her breath, forcibly drags her away, down to an underground garage. When she enters, the man behind the parking booth looks up at her and stiffens, his lower lip twitching, nods stiffly; she nods back, hurriedly making her way to her bike, does not stop to speak to anyone, not even Taigen who emerges from the office in the back, but she can feel their eyes on her; she does not give a fuck; they know who she is but here, no one would dare touch them; not now; not Smoke; Mizu pulls her jacket off and throws it over Geraldine's shoulders, then swiftly pulls on her helmet, puts one on Geraldine, too, with sharp, swift, measured movements, fastens the straps beneath her chin; presses a finger against the soft skin of her jaw, tipping her head towards her. A kind of signal-flare: I am here. I mean you no harm.

“Hey,” Mizu says. “Hey! You with me?”

“I’m here,” she breathes, and Mizu thinks she’s imagining the little hitch in her voice, like she realized halfway through she is. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Mizu straddles her motorbike, holding Geraldine in the front, her thighs over hers, not trusting her to hold on. Like a bullet through a stomach, she hits the highway.

Her sight clears enough to see how Geraldine keeps her hands curled in tight fists all the way down the stairs and through the hallway that leads to her flat (more of a bunker, buried underground, all still, lifeless air and shadows). She watches her try to loosen them once, standing at her back as Mizu punches in the password to enter—but they’re shaking badly and she immediately curls her fingers back in, burying her nails in her palms. Lifts her chin, sets her mouth. Her expression is smooth and cold as durasteel when she catches Mizu looking.

Mizu looks away, wordlessly pushes the door open and hits a switch. The long row of acrylic led light bars overhead sputters to life, dousing them in cold half-light.

It's dark inside her flat— dark and cold and metallic, walls empty, white, too white, the static light reflecting off of them casting strange shadows.

Geraldine does not look around her; Mizu watches her as she staggers her way to the bed in the corner and lays her body down slowly, blinking at the world around her through the unshed tears that blur her vision, at the only painting on the blank wall across the bed, the coils of a monstrous snake, swallowing its tail. She blinks strangely at it, and Mizu wonders what she might be thinking, then lets her eyes roll up to the ceiling, blindly, like a ragdoll.

Unsure what to do— what she's supposed to say, she stands stiffly in the middle of the room, watches her pull the blanket up to her chest rigidly, not looking back at her when Mizu says you good? and immediately regrets the question—because how could she be; but Mizu has never had to do this, has never had to think of death as anything other than a necessity; this loss of hers should somehow strike a nerve - raw, naked, pulsing in her chest - but she can't feel anything past the pounding of her blood at her temples; can't let herself feel it, that pain, that ache that gnaws you to the bone, strips you clean; she doesn't know what's wrong with her but something must be. Involuntarily, her fingers twitch into a fist at her side, and she watches her roll over in her bed, turning her back to her.

Geraldine doesn't answer her, anyway.

She falls into a fitful slumber- and Mizu stands there numbly and watches the way her shoulders remain stiff and tight, even in her sleep. Then, she tears herself away and staggers into the bathroom, groaning, feeling the blood soaking her side as she stiffly removes her shirt, feels another thread in her stitches tear. She lets the blood flow, stands numbly before the mirror, lifts her eyes to her reflection. A ripple of shock floods through her but she does not visibly react to whoever's looking back at her through the glass; she does not recognize her face in the mirror; her face, a death’s mask of horror, and faint blood, streaked across her skin; it looks unnervingly... at peace. As though something inside of it has been fed; had stopped, only for one moment, to scream and howl for what it's been taken from it. Her hands are twitching when she curls her fingers on the edge of the sink, holding on as she stares at her eyes into the mirror, feeling that thing that lives inside of her, that soft dead thing that's been sliced open and bled out, rotting, pulse and tremble; her blood is pounding, pounding, and she inhales hard through her nose, feels her shoulders stiffen. Feels her body fill up with something bitter that she swallows back violently, she won't let it flood her blood; she can't, she won't; it's done. Something's changed, shifted; like something's being kicked into life, some thread long tight-knotted and tangled unspooling, unfolding. Something's begun.

Violet's dead. That's all that matters. He's dead, by her hand. She lifts it in front of her, looks at all the blood, black and dried up, coating her fingers.

She blinks at her face in the mirror, the cold, stoic, emptiness of it, feels her blood flow, feels that dark, half-choked whisper in her ear, screaming, like static humming in her head; tearing herself away, she grabs a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the shelf, unscrewing the cap. She is furious; exhilarated, angry; she is bitter and triumphant and enraged; dead and full and empty and thrumming with life- he's dead; she shuts her eyes as her fingers touch her side, sees him, there, sat at his desk, his head jerking back, splashing the wall with his blood; she growls, tearing the gauze off of the wound in her side, and she thinks of Geraldine on her knees in her room sewing it closed, thinks of her in her bed, her father hanging from the signboard; she flinches, buries the thought, and dumps half the bottle onto the open wound, half of it over her face, the tiny cuts from the shards of glass shattering all over her, the split in her cheek, gritting her teeth, a hiss spilling through them.

Mechanically, she starts the shower and steps into the spray of cold water, does not wait for it to warm, washes the blood off, watching as it swirls, thick and scarlet around her feet, watching the water sluice it away into the drain with the last of whatever dark guilt claws at that soft, dead thing rotting inside her.

Abstractedly, Mizu grabs a medical kit from the shelf and pads back into the room, water spilling off her wet hair, unbound, sticking to the back of her neck, her bare shoulders.

She hisses when the needle tears through her skin, cursing through her teeth. She patches herself up sloppily, tosses the bloodied gauzes out and then heats up some water, watches it, numbly, detachedly come to a boil, sits with her tea on the couch, sets the cup on the table before her. She kills the lights and sits back as though laying in wait for something. There are tables and monitors blinking in the open space to her left, casting her in strange light. She sets her hands upon her thighs and for the first time that night, breathes.

The phone on the table lights up, rings once and she swiftly grabs it, answers the call; she does not speak; Ringo speaks first, says, "You are alive!" as though surprised, a strange, bright under-current of relief in his voice; Mizu grunts in agreement. Indeed. Alive.

Silence. A clock ticking. Geraldine stirs in her bed, under her sheets.

"and him?" a breathless question,

"what do you think?"

"I knew it! I knew that you would—"

"Goodbye, Ringo—" she cuts him off, and he protests, desperately scrabbles for her attention; she says, "I'll call you later... I'll have to..." and the way she says it must sound strange to him because he gasps, but whatever comes next, she does not hear, ending the call.

Hours go by; the tea in her cup goes cold; she dozes off, numbly on the couch; the back of her neck aches, stiff and rigid, slumped over the back of the sofa; the wound in her side is throbbing; she flits in and out of sleep for hours; does not know how long she lays there. She must have lost more blood than she thought she had; when she jerks herself upright, blinking through the darkness that engulfs the room, she feels her bones shatter under her own weight and groans, touches her hand to her wound in her side, cursing. The stitches have not torn, but it feels like white-hot knives are piercing every inch of her skin. Her mouth is dry. Instinctively, her eyes sweep over to the girl in her bed, her face now turned towards her, soft in the half-light pouring over from the low led lights flickering in the kitchen. Her throat tightens up at the sudden memory that rips through her; the flames and the fire; her father hanging in the air, dead and gone. Mother screaming her name; the bathtub slick with blood. Geraldine on her knees, her hands on her wound, her fingers crimson with her blood.

She gasps, a short of a shallow, sharp gulp for air.

She does not know how but somehow she falls back into sleep. When she awakes again, the hurt in her side has escalated from a dull throb to burning, glaring pain – faster than a lightning bolt. She groans, blindy reaching for her phone but it's out of reach and she does not want to move.

She stares at the wall, looks at the snake in that painting, coiling darkly, swallowing its own tail.

She feels eyes on her, her eyes, dark, carnelian, hungered, gleaming in the darkness, all that fire, snuffed out; when she darts her gaze askance, there is Geraldine laying awake in her bed, staring at her. Something shifts deep inside of her, something she does not have a name for, but she does not shatter under her gaze; she stares back, a silent, fevered apology for something she can't feel sorry for in her gaze (her eyes, too, gleam; like shards of glass; like the glint of a knife; cold, unforgivable) she wonders how long she's been awake for; if she's been watching her sleep, and the thought makes that something growl, makes her look away. Lets her watch her as Mizu falls back into sleep.

Mizu jerks herself awake with a groan, hissing as she moves, her side burning. There's a strip of light pouring in through the small window in the kitchen, it must be day again. How long have they been out for? With sudden realization, she looks for Geraldine and sees her bed empty.

Confused, she sits upright, looks around for signs of her, her own jacket, coated with dried blood on the floor before the bed, her purse on a chair; she sighs, through her nose, feeling her bones creak and ache as she moves, mutters a fuck, under her breath. She reaches for the shirt tossed to her side, clean, white, and shrugs it on, but doesn't button it up, leaves it open. She forces herself on her feet, and walks to the kitchen, sees Geraldine stood at the small window, her face blank. She spares a fleeting, cool glance toward her, then looks away wordlessly, and Mizu stands at the door stiffly, a little out of her waters, a little annoyed, a little confused, irritated, in pain, and to her shock, a lot troubled, worried, concerned—for her— stares at Geraldine's back, her dark hair, gathered up off her neck, the way the light spills over the nape of it, soft, delicate. (She was still wearing it long, in those days, a cascade of black curls around her small shoulders.) Her own hair, she realizes, a little too late, a little too disinterestedly, can't bring herself to give a fuck or think that she does, is still unbound.

You okay? Mizu hears herself ask, you need something? glass of water?

She thinks she sees the very corner of Geraldine's mouth twitch.

She does not answer for a while, then, as Mizu reaches for the bottle of Vicodin on the counter, swallows two pills dry, Geraldine comes back from wherever she has lost herself in, turns around, says I don't need anything, and looks at Mizu for a moment, stares through her, wordlessly, an ache behind her eyes that will not go, even when Mizu nods, fills a glass of water for her anyway. She looks so tired; fragile, like the slightest touch could shatter her into a million pieces. Her hair is so long, the thought, strange as it is, suddenly cuts through the static filling her mind; so dark against her skin; her lower lip is split, she must have bitten it open while she dragged her from the fire, screaming for her father.

She watches her drink the water, then feels her shoulder as she brushes past her and back to her bed.

Mizu stands at the sink numbly, thinks about last night; the fire; Violet.

Fowler.

Sudden, piercing fury rises to her throat; she must do something, there are people after her, after them both; there's a bounty over her head, the world on her back, dogging her every step; but she's so tired, she feels as though she's burning, still burning, her blood fire under her skin. She should call Ringo, should find Madame, track them down- should go after him; should find a way; should... should. Time's ticking away, but she is achingly tired; sick with it; she can't think clearly. Irritated, she refills the glass and gulps the water down, takes another pill, tosses the glass in the sink. It cracks.

She will; soon.

She sits down on the couch heavily and sighs, sinks her face into her hands. She will. Always does. For now, she sleeps.

This time, she does not sleep the day away.

She wakes up at her phone going off on the table and rubs at her eyes, blinks the fatigue away.

It's Ringo, and before she can answer it, her phone dies. She gets up and plugs it in, then calmly, methodically, as though already on autopilot, getting things done, reaches for her laptop.

She goes back to her couch and tries to work soundlessly, lets Geraldine sleep.

Sometimes she murmurs something under her sheets, and Mizu will look her way over the monitor; sometimes she will look a little too long, look at the slope of her neck, so very fragile, as she gasps for breath in her sleep- she must be dreaming, must be having a nightmare; she puts her glasses on, and gathers her hair up in a bun the way she usually wears it. The wound in her side is still throbbing, but she must know, must see what's going on out there while they hide away. She reaches for the phone and calls Ringo, who's sighing in relief again the moment he realizes she's okay, in that stunted, strangely too bright, too warm way he's got about him, cuts him off when he asks too many questions ( of course he knows; he knows she would have had something to do with the fire, with Skeffington's death- he does not know she's got his daughter, shattered to pieces but alive in her bed) says I need the Madame. Find Kaji.

He understands.

A little after 8 in the evening, she finds herself dozing off, slipping in and out of it, but she's waiting for him to call again, waiting for him to find her, so she forces herself to stay awake, gets up and feels the wound in her side throb violently, tearing a groan from the back of her throat. Annoyed, she sits back down and peels the gauze back to look at he wound, wheezing as the ache biting into her side flares up. It looks a bit too swollen, the thread biting into the torn skin. She's half-botched it, she thinks, annoyed, and reaches for the med kit again, splashes more antiseptic onto it, hissing at the sting.

She covers it again, and haphazardly tosses the empty bottle of disinfectant aside, sits back and buttons her shirt up.

She blinks, startled to see Geraldine come to stand at her side, wakeful and clear eyed, a frown lining her face. She must have been in the kitchen, getting water. She sets the glass down on the table.

She looks down at Mizu, asks, bluntly, "why were you making those noises?"

and Mizu says, shrugging her concerns off, "It's nothing. You awake?"

"No, I'm still sleeping." she shoots back in that familiar way she has that is both full of exasperation and something achingly tender at the same time, and, "sure sounded like something... come on. let me take a look. last I remember you were bleeding in the back of the car"

"well, Im not." Mizu reaches for her phone, but Geraldine does not give up, reaches for the medical kit thrown onto the floor at Mizu's feet, and comes to stand near her, looking down at her with something strange and burning in her eyes, like the flare of a match struck lit, flickering.

"Let me help."

"You wanna help, you go back to bed until you're better." Mizu says, and she flares up at it, as though she's being insane, unreasonable, as though she's been slapped across the face.

"I don't think I'm the one that needs to get better." she says, and there is nothing wrong with me; I am here; I'm here— I am me— awake, alive; I lost a father not my mind— goes unsaid, dies in her throat, and, indignant, annoyed by her callousness, her coldness, how she dismisses her like she can't bother to look her in the eye, the way she puts on that mask as though it's not been cracked beyond repair, reaches for Mizu, anyway, reaches for her shirt, wanting to see, make it right, make something right, but Mizu shoves her hand away, says, coldly, too coldly,

"You don't fucking know what you are doing." shrugs her off.

Geraldine blinks, taken aback by the sharpness of it, and all that light in those eyes gets snuffed out, again, but something else lights up inside her, something furious, with teeth; Mizu does not see it, but she can hear it when something else inside her shatters, when she pulls away, taking the air with her.

She walks off in a swirl of anger and regret, but before she can go Mizu wordlessly reaches for her hand, curls her fingers around her wrist and pulls her back. She does not say anything, but slowly looks up at her; Geraldine's eyes are cold, empty, the edge of a blade held to her throat; she's breathing faster now, her cheeks red with anger, and Mizu somehow manages to say, "I didn't mean that. " To the point. Her voice staccato, low. Her hand rough on her wrist.

Geraldine shrugs her off, tries to pull her hand away, but Mizu firmly holds her in place, clutches at her hand tighter, pulls her closer, her wrist swallowed up by her hand. " I didn't."

In the moment that follows their eyes lock and something shifts in the air.

The light pouring over Geraldine from the ceiling is low, flickers, on and off, on and off—the world around her seems sort of blurry, darker around the edges. But it’s enough to see when she steps towards her, and it’s enough to know where to put her hands, when Geraldine presses herself against her.

This would be an easier story to tell if she had been drunk. If they’d stumbled together in the frantic aftermath of the night, hungered for something, anything that could make them feel alive, untouched by all the death swarming their world, take that edge off. It would have been easy, too much fury in her blood, too much fire, and a beautiful girl she doesn’t deserve, flushed and wanting, looking at her, at her; one night of pretending she was worthy of her. Pretending she was worthy of touch and want and desire, of her soft, soft mouth on her throat, the kiss, the wild, savage delight of it. That she can want her; want, and take and not feel sick for it.

When she kisses her it’s violent, all teeth, sloppy in trying to forget too much in her mouth. Mizu lets her — and her mouth is very soft and warm and slack, startled— lets her push her back against the back of the couch, lets her crawl onto her lap, keeps her hands chastely at her waist; Geraldine's are shaking where they touch her, curling into her clothes, her hair, down the column of her neck as though scrabbling for purchase, something to anchor herself to.

( Mizu's never been anything but a comet, an object in constant motion, but if there’s anyone she wanted to drag through space with her— )

She is warm in her arms, grinding down into Mizu's thigh desperately, making those little breathless mewling sounds that fan her blood to fire, and that’s dangerous; the slick, perfect cant of her hips, the way she’s looking at her. Like Mizu's something that can be owned. That can be held. Used for more than a fuck or a quick job, like she can keep her there all to herself, between those thighs, with a quick hot press of her mouth, and god— maybe she can.

She does not know if it's the fever, the fatigue, that dark, senseless, aching emptiness that howls to be filled, but Mizu’s already delirious with her; she’s gone, her pulse shattered in her throat. She cradles the back of her head and kisses her right back, sinks into the slick heat of her mouth, her tongue joining the prowl of teeth and lips as she chases after her lips, licks her mouth open, and it's agony then, it's desperation, it's Geraldine's moans filling the air between them, and furious, frantic kisses, pulling her closer, growling at the feeling of her, slick and wet and hot, rubbing against the apex of her thigh. The sensation is overwhelming, sending what feels like shock waves through her body. She lets herself be greedy, her hands wandering down her shoulders and brushing the sides of her breasts through the silk of her dress. Her fingers curl around her waist, trying to pull her even closer, trapping her between her arms, pressed flush to her chest and holding her there, feeling the slick glide of her cunt against her thigh, filling her mouth with those frantic keening sobs of pleasure that tremble in Geraldine's throat.

And although it's Geraldine that's come to her with a hunger, it is Mizu who takes control of the helm of the beast. With her mouth pouring against her neck, she lets her teeth rake across the now-raised flesh of her throat and down, until she is coveting the hard line of her collarbone. Geraldine turns her head to the side as though she’s trying to find something to mask the noise that pours from her lips. It’s a trembling sigh, punctuated by a moan that’s more breathlessness than sound, a sobbing cry of pure, violent pleasure as Mizu sinks her teeth into the swell of her breasts, mouthing at the skin, a low breathless moan in her throat.

Her hips feel small and round in her hands, spanned by her fingers. She’s trembling, Mizu can feel it against every place they touch.

She kisses her, again, palms her stomach, feeling it swell and flatten with every furious breath. She’s so fucking warm; warm and wet, especially when her hand slips down, past the folds of her black dress that's ridden far past up her thighs, and into her panties, properly.

Geraldine jerks forward when she touches her, a howl caught in her throat. “god—,” she snaps, enough that Mizu feels the press of her teeth against the shell of her ear. “god please, please—" she is frantic, desperate, pouring her mouth all over Mizu now, kissing her everywhere, her lips, her nose, her throat, her neck as Mizu growls helplessly, the ache in her pussy unbearable as she sinks her fingers into that heat, feels her pulse around her finger, feels her tremble above her.

She's terrified by the smallness of her, how much of her throat fits in her palms, her wrists waiting to be swallowed up by her hands. She makes a little noise when Mizu digs her thumb into her clit, and Mizu almost misses it, that’s how loud her own pulse is in her ears, matched by her half-sobs and ragged breathing. Everything feels outsized; her and this girl, with her being cold and sharp like a knife and horrible, needing the press of her skin even if it’s wrong in her fever, and her so fragile, fine. A feral, wild creature handling china, except the china is breathing, and hot, and when she drops her head and sucks at her throat she makes the sweetest noise Mizu’s ever heard, something high and sharp and needing, without knowing how or why.

(I could fall in love with you, Mizu thinks, and is horrified by it, tucks it away quick in some place in her head she never ventures, where she keeps the tragedy and trauma, and this too, how much she wants this, craves its softness, its affection, but even the mere thought of someone caring, wanting this- with her - wanting her, makes her stomach turn.)

“I want you to fuck me,” she mumbles against Mizu's jaw, and the air leaves Mizu's lungs like she’s been shot.

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, those words out of her kiss-bruised mouth, sounding so small, so fragile, like glass— delicate, powerless in her hands. Mizu's imagined this a hundred times, dreamed of it even in her cold, perpetual denial, but it had always been her, burning and laughing and sure. Not whatever this is, whoever she’s trying to be instead of scared and aching, with bruises at her throat and death on her hands.

“—No... Stop.” she gasps, gathers her hands in hers and pulls them away, very gently, firmly, trying for 'we cant, we mustn't , not now, like this— ' in fewer words.

She freezes, feels the slick press of Geraldine's mouth under her ear, her sweet breath tickling her skin. “yes...yes. I want you. ” she whispers in her ear, and Mizu slips in and out of that pulsing, hot heat of them together, how she wants wants wants this; rips her hand away and stiffens, says, desperate, because this is wrong; it's all wrong; Geraldine does not know her; she knows Smoke, she knows Ghost, the Onryo- she thinks she's him, something else.

"I don't think you know what you are saying."

“Mizu...” she gasps, "It's okay. I know... I know." she whispers, pulls back only an inch to look at her, meaningfully slipping her hand between Mizu's legs, pressing her palm against her. "I don't care. God — I want you." and Mizu gasps, then with a flood of understanding, blinks at her, all of her blood rushing, and she can feel again the violent thumping inside of her, the rushing, burning blood, Geraldine's mouth slick, hot on her throat, her hand trembling between her legs. She feels her mouth on her neck, feels her dark curls stream over her skin as she unbuttons her shirt, licking a fiery path down the swell of one breast, the sudden, violent savagery of her want, pulsing, throbbing.

She gasps, her blood thickened, her eyes blind, her ears filled with humming,

"No... this isn't right..." she protests between kisses, and her voice comes out breathless and shattered, a soft moan, her mouth slack and wanting- god, she wants her; she has to tear her mouth away, has to crawl her way out of that heat, the shuddering delight of it that she wants but can't have, won't have; they can't... she can't, must not, she shouldn't.

her hands shoot out and gather Geraldine's wrists in them, rips them off her burning skin, says, stop. you are out of it.

and when she won't pull away, it's like she can't even see her past whatever unhinged, ravenous, violent, aching need has sunk her in its darkness, Mizu has to push her back, make her look her in the eye, faint, scarlet lipstick stains slick on her neck, between her breasts, her jaw,

"your father fucking died and you wanna fuck? - what's wrong with you?"

and it's cold and cruel and careless, and yes- this is who she is; this is who I am, she thinks through the fever in her blood, see me; have me; bitter and resentful and detached, untouchable and heartless, smoke, smoke, smoke.

All of a sudden, death is fully present in the room with them, settling darkly between the two of them and can't be ignored any longer.

Geraldine does not flinch away from her, does not fall apart at her callousness, but her hands slip from her grip and she sits back in her lap, blinks at Mizu, startled, her eyes gleaming darkly, sharpened knives.

"he did not die. My father did not die. " she snaps. that is not the word for it, goes unsaid but hangs in the air between them- to die is to die in your bed, in your sleep, in a hospital bed, cleanly; to die takes just a little while and then it's out of sight- done, gone, ended. What happened to him had been something else; and Mizu thinks she can hear the accusation tremble in her voice, and her body goes rigid under her, stiff, violent with her fury, her breaths coming out heavy as she snaps back, "well he did", half anger and half whatever else is between them.

"this is not on me! I do not need this-" her eyes flit across Geraldine, and her voice is still breathless, but it's colder now, that low, dark growl, "I did not ask for your help, you gave it to me. I would have found him either way." matter of fact, sharp, clean-cut. ( I did not need you; I did not need this; there's no room for hesitation, guilt or weakness and I will not explain or regret this- you do not know what I have done to find him; what it means... What it means. )

Geraldine freezes, looks up, expressionless. Her eyes are pale. She stares at her blindly for far too long, long enough that Mizu wants to hide from it, that empty, pained expression; she would have taken fury over this a hundred times over, wishes she would explode at her, hit her, anything but whatever this is. This... this she does not know what to do with, but kill between her hands with a snap of her wrist. So she does. “I did not blame you, Mizu.” she drawls back horribly, evenly, trying to control the tremor in her voice. It’s not angry or cold, just wounded, shattered, something hard and bitter, pained.

Every action has consequences. But sometimes you have to make a choice. "I made a choice...not you. I made a choice and have to live with it, and I will. You don't have a monopoly on making bad calls."

Mizu stiffens, stares right through her, not knowing what she's supposed to say. Consequences.

She doesn't say it.

"Consequences." Geraldine more laughs that says the word, instead, and it's dark and wet and terrible, but she does not crack, does not shatter under the weight of it, although her eyes are dark and wet. When she moves to pull herself off Mizu, Mizu's hands fall to her waist, momentarily tighten, but she does not hold her, does not pull her back. When she stands, she takes all the warmth away with her, stripping her naked, leaving only that empty, hard cold shell of her, sat numbly on the couch.

Geraldine picks up the med kit off the floor again, says, let me look at it, and Mizu does not know what else to do so she does, she unbuttons her shirt and lets it spill down her shoulders, hisses when she feels her hands on her wound, scowls cooly, when Geraldine says you've messed it up, and nothing more, watches her calmly, too calmly use her lighter to heat up the gauze and clean the wound, peel off the stitches and sew it up again, slowly, tenderly, as though she somehow deserves this softness, the careful press of her fingers, wet with her blood. She dresses the wound wordlessly, and there is no meaness in her hands, no anger. It's only in her eyes, the coldness, and it feels like the sun is pulling away from her, drowning her in its shadow as it does. There. All new. Geraldine says curtly and gathers the used needle and gauzes and threads, tossing them out, does not even wash her hands before she sits on the edge of Mizu's bed and fishes a pack of cigs from her purse, lights one up. Mizu, grunts a thanks, as she does so, reaches for the Vicodin, something for her fever. She watches as plumes of white smoke swirl around Geraldine, watches her exhale, staring at the snake in the painting on the blank wall. It'll kill you, she reminds her, and that last one earns her a baldly unimpressed look and a yeah, okay... shut up.

Geraldine puts her cigarette out, anyway, says "I need something clean to wear. I wanna shower, and maybe something to eat. Won't be all up in your business for too long, I just-" and Mizu cuts her off sharply, says, "don't be stupid. I didn't say you gotta go." not now, like this.

She does not answer her, just gets up when Mizu does, and trails after her, does not say thanks when Mizu hands her over a pair of her jeans and a black top, takes them in her hands expressionlessly and walks away.

Mizu sits on her bed as she showers, and stares at the snake, too, its dark mouth swallowing itself.

When she gets out of the shower, wet and dripping water over the floorboards, Mizu stands up, too quickly, says, "I'll... leave you to it."

"You do that."

Later, they will argue over the bed; Mizu won't take it, insists that she sleeps in it, she is still in grief, lonely, in pain, she does not say that, not to her face, does not even think it, it's primal, needing to offer this... some sort of comfort.

In the end Geraldine wins (she will not back down, doesn't want scraps of sympathy, which makes Mizu roll her eyes, does not want sheets that smell like gunpowder, she'll be fine- fine...) she takes the couch, and Mizu the bed, and when she awakes in the middle of the night from a nightmare to her sobbing quietly in her sleep, under the sheets, does not say anything, spares her the pain of having to talk about it.

In the morning, before she disappears, Mizu leaves a glass of water near her for her to wake up to.

You come here thinking there is a way out of this world for you. There is not.

Primal, feral obsession sinks its teeth in every last part of her; Mizu can't think about anything but Fowler; his voice on the other end of the line, the cruel, bitter laughter in it, taunting, threatening her. It makes her anger swell and explode, throws her in this violent vortex of vengeful rage; she loses herself in it; shrugs her jacket on every morning and rides down to the Continental, laying in wait for Kaji, or any sign that could lead her to her or to Fowler's men and past them, to him.

She's got Ringo working his magic, but there's been no sign of her anywhere for days now; weeks, even, long before Violet's death.

She grows impatient and bitter, and when she comes back home empty handed, it's dark, way past midnight but she does not stop, does not know how, pops Vicodin dry and chugs black, bitter coffee all night, runs through databases, in spite of Ringo being hot on their digital trail; she must do something with her hands, must keep going, keep looking, find something or she'll lose it.

It's a dark, black blur, the world around her in the days that follow.

Geraldine does not speak to her much most days; she holds a dark brow aloft at her once, watching her toss one of the monitors off the desk in her rage, her frustration at her lack of any real lead that could show her that line, that bright, sharp point she must follow but can't, not if she can't see it.

Geraldine smokes, and she wears her jeans, and blinks at her blankly once when she catches her chugging coffee straight out of a bowl because she's broken most of her glasses and can't be bothered to replace them; asks her for a phone, to find her people, she says, and no more. Mizu wakes up to her screaming in her sleep most nights; leaves glasses of water on the table for her. She's half a ghost, plumes of smoke and that sharp, dark glint of her eyes, watching her when she shrugs on her leather jacket, tucks her gun into her jeans, says they're after you. you are being reckless going back out there so soon. you'll get caught and Mizu says I won't.

Their shoulders touch sometimes as they brush their teeth side by side in her bathroom, and Geraldine shoves her away with her elbow, complains, you're hogging the mirror, and Mizu says, annoyed, incredulous, you've got to watch yourself brush your teeth? and yes, I have to.

but it’s easy to stay here, some nights, with her, when her grief is not a gun held to their throat, and her presence not a threat, a constant reminder that she's let herself be weak, keeping her here, close, (she chose to help her: Geraldine did; she made this happen, her choices, her stubbornness, her self-indulgent delusions; it's not her responsibility to keep her safe, there is no room for distraction...but she does-she's here, and it's what it is; she's real, with her, like the way she takes way too much sugar in her tea, is real, or how she sets the edge of a curl on fire smoking a cigarette, over breakfast and Mizu snorts on her tea ) but it's easy, when she softens, smokes her cigarettes, lazing in the low light of her room and teasing Mizu scathingly, mercilessly for how serious she looks, bent over her laptop as though she'll find her enemies in there. I wouldn't like to earn your anger, she scoffs, pretends to shudder in fear. Geraldine sits, facing away, trying to track down her own contacts. Occasionally, she reaches for something on the desk; instinctively, because she always looks up when she can’t find it, shakes her head as though chasing away a thought.

Mizu wonders what used to sit on her desk in her room under the Cabinet. She wonders if she can ask, or if that’s impolite, reminding a girl her life is gone.

Really she just likes watching her, the graceful economy of her hands, the way she touches her mouth sometimes, checking on her lip. (Her little wound—she’d worried at her lower lip all through that night, bitten it as she watched her father burn, torn it open. She wonders if it would bleed if she smiled.) She’d tell her she’s beautiful, but she gets the sense that she’s heard it before, though maybe not quite the way she means it. She imagines someone like her gets called ‘beautiful’ like paintings or a shard of diamond, something sharp and hot and alluring, not ‘beautiful’ like women, like her, like the nape of her neck and her lip, bleeding.

She looks up from the laptop on her knee one night, and watches that nape, how she gathers her hair off it, pulls them up in a ponytail.

“Stop looking at me like that, Smoke,” she says then, like she can hear Mizu thinking it.

Mizu makes a sound, a huff, a snort, letting her head fall against the back of the couch.

“And how exactly am I looking at you?”

She doesn’t think she’s heard her laugh in such a long time, it startles the breath in her throat. She should do that more often.

“You’re funny, Mizu.”

“I am breathlessly hilarious. you haven’t answered my question.”

She scoffs. “I wasn’t raised in a covent. I know what that look means.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Oh, suck my dick.”

The laugh is startled out of Mizu, and she can’t help looking—she’s smiling too, or as good as, her eyes warm and on Mizu. Mizu swallows. “I’m impressed... that was almost a real curse.”

“Almost?” Geraldine protests.

“Yeah, almost. Now…” she makes a show of considering their options. “‘. Go fuck yourself.’ That would have been a real curse.”

She lifts her chin imperiously, and it’s dangerous, how much Mizu likes it when she does that, the way her eyes go hooded. “Okay. Go fuck yourself. ” she says, slowly and carefully.

There’s got to be at least a yard between them—her behind the desk, Mizu on the couch, maybe a yard and a half—and there’s something new and trembling in that space, warm in the air. Mizu's a little worried to mess with it or even look at it straight.

She does not have to worry too long; Geraldine forces herself to look away, but she can see her hand fumble a little when she reaches for her smokes.

"Seriously? Again?"

"Addiction is tricky." Geraldine drawls as she lights up a cig, takes long drags of it as though it might cure some disease growing inside of her. Her lips (soft and sweet with her lipstick) purse around the flute, and she inhales, closes her eyes for a moment. They are burning when they meet Mizu's again, and her mouth dips up. “I only smoke when I’m nervous.” she tells her, shrugging. “It’s a terrible habit.” Mizu says back, and Geraldine bites her lip, thoughtful to her, seductive to Mizu.

“you are a terrible habit.” she says it like it's something normal to say; the casual, soft drawl of her voice running through her like a knife.

Startled, Mizu blinks, does not react to it.

"Come here." Geraldine moves to sit on the edge of the bed, crosses one leg over the other, and as she does so, Mizu's eyes darken, follow her skirt as it rides up her thigh. "I'll show you," and Mizu stares back at her.

She can't deny her, and why not? it's late, fuck, she doesn't know how long she's been awake for, and she's been watching her play with her hair for too long. Suddenly, she wants her close. A beat, and then she gets up and sits next to her on the bed, says "show me what?"

"Magic tricks," Geraldine taunts, brushes Mizu's hair back from her eyes absently, that little curly strand.

"What bad habits do to you — Lean in, relax. God knows you need it." she adds then, sucks in the smoke and holds it, watches Mizu lean in close, her blue eyes dark, her nose brushing hers, a strange smirk on her lips as understanding sets in — she presses her mouth to hers and blows the smoke out slowly, and Mizu takes it, feels the heat of it drip in her lungs and sputters a little, coughs, which makes Geraldine laugh at her, a quiet, breathless sound; come on. it gets easier. she sucks in the smoke from her cig (mint and something strange, bitter, like overripe plums) touches her lips to Mizu's; they pass the smoke between each other’s open mouths, like this, and Mizu feels her blood turn to fire under her skin. Mizu holds her throat in her left hand chastely, sweet, mint smoke sprawling out of half-open lips. She's silk beneath her hands, Mizu thinks dizzily, her mouth tastes like sugar and liquorice, and she sucks the smoke from it hungrily, feels her tongue brush against her lower lip— she's the pulse in her throat, this girl, the hitch of her breath, that languid, that sinuous, that electric, that girl.

Enveloped in smoke, Geraldine draws back, slack-jawed and soft, her lips wet where she's licked them, curled in a coy smile, and Mizu, cold, stoic, unyielding Mizu who has been distant and cold and detached, chases after that mouth, that heat, cradles the back of her head in her hands and forces her back close to her, presses her forehead to hers, as though unsure of what she wants, traces the fleshly curve of her lower lip, like it's the sweetest thing she's ever touched, not like she's waiting for something else, like her hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. She dips her fingers into her swollen mouth, inhales her sigh.

When she crawls on top of her and crowds her back against the mattress, Geraldine gasps, says her name in that breathless, rapt way she's got about her, asks what are you doing? Mizu does not answer, does not know how to make words for this. She straddles her hips and pins her down, licks her mouth open with hers, and her jaw is as sharp as cut glass, her eyes ocean depth, dark and ravenous; the cigarette burns a hole in her sheets, sizzles out; she swallows the soft, desperate moans that spill from Geraldine's mouth, feels her body shudder under the weight of her, grinding up against her, already half shattered with how much she wants this, wants her, and it's all heat then, sweet smoke and tongues and frantic, spit-slick kisses. Her thumb in her mouth, her nails on Mizu's back, that right there, that fire, that want, that starvation is what she wants. Mizu scrapes her teeth across her neck, feels the pulse point in her throat throb against her tongue as she licks her neck, buries her hands under her t-shirt (one of her own, loose around her shoulders and black.) She is breathless and unhinged, her body hot to the touch with every nerve firing off a spark of sensation, but still, she pulls back an inch with a dark smirk on her lips, asks, no bra? and Geraldine gasps at the sensation of her hands roaming over her chest under her shirt, says "mine are in the wash, and yours are tiny."

Tiny?

"Fucking brat." her eyes flash, and her hips jerk against Geraldine's, hard and slow, teeth snagging her own bottom lip as she struggles against the growing tension between her thighs. Everything is white-hot and pulsing, prickling her skin with a sheen, light sweat. Her fingers curl beneath the hem of Geraldine's shirt to peel it deftly up and off of her to let it fall to the side, and Geraldine is pulling her furiously back down to her, shifting until she can wrap her legs around her, kisses her mouth hot and slick and furious. While the ache between her legs is unbearable, and her skirt has ridden up far past her upper thighs, she doesn’t break the kiss when Mizu slips a finger into her panties, strokes her slow, taunting, toying with her. Her teeth, instead, become involved when she’s breathless, nipping at her lower lip in an act of hungry desperation. "fuck..." Mizu moans into the kiss, and Geraldine says yes, sucks at her throat, sending a shock of sensation through her skin that escalates to every vein and artery strung throughout her body. Mizu's lips part with a hiss, her tongue melding against Geraldine's in a teasing opposition. She holds her wrists above her head, pins her down, says I want you, clasps both hands in her palm as her other hand furiously delves into her panties again, slipping her middle finger inside her. She buries her face into the curve of her neck as she fucks her with only one of her fingers, feels her warm breath tickling her ear as Geraldine sucks sweet, deep kisses over the curve of it, quivering through a series of thrusts, each deeper, each tearing a little more at her drenched heat until her finger's as deep inside her as it could ever be, and Geraldine thinks she will surely die, she'll fucking die, biting into the muscled peak of Mizu's shoulder, trying not to scream; her body is crying out for completion, it is starvation, agony, and she tries to speak through her shallow gasps, to beg her for more, but it comes out a sobbing whimper, and she whispers her name in a slurring, wet drawl, her delicate hips rocking in time with her muffled moans as Mizu quickens her pace, and she would have given her more, she would have bitten and licked and fucked her every way she would have let her, but a furious pounding on the door stills every last muscle in her body to complete motionlessness, gasping in her open mouth as their foreheads press together. Geraldine breathlessly reaches for her, says, no, don't stop, pulls her back.

But Mizu's automatically reaching for the gun under her bed, cocking it, already on edge, blood pounding. Her movements are precise, perfect, controlled. She gestures for her to keep quiet as she lifts herself off the bed.

She does not get too far.

Ringo's voice comes through the door, saying, I found her and something very akin to shock rips right through Mizu, and her eyes must have hardened, her attention violently snagged away from the heat of the moment, because she's moving to the door and prying it open to let him in and Geraldine is left scrabbling at the bed for her shirt, tugging her skirt down over her thighs.

Ringo comes in like a typhoon, stands under the cold, harsh led lights, and is about to say something when his attention is caught by the girl in Mizu's bed, and his jaw slackens in confusion.

You are not alone! he sounds surprised, and Mizu has to shove him in the shoulder to get him to look at her again, snap her fingers in his face.

"You were saying you found her?"

Ringo blinks, and his eyes grow wide, startled by her stepping between him and the bed, demanding answers.

"uh... yeah. I did. Told you I would!"

A beat. Silence. Sheets rustling as Geraldine reaches for the cig on the floor and re-lights it.

"—and?" her patience is running thin, but then again so is time.

"She's home now... She's back home."

The Continental. A muscle in Mizu's cheek spasms.

"And where has she been?"

Ringo shrugs. His voice changes a little, drops.

"I don't think she ever left it."

Huh.

Mizu does not physically react to any of it, but already, she's gone, her mind racing; she's the only one that might be able to tell her where Fowler is; the only one that would.

She shrugs her leather jacket on, and pulls her loose hair up in its usual bun, and Geraldine, who's been watching them blankly, leaning against the wall, blows out the smoke, says,

"where are you going?"

"If she's heard what's happened, she'll be waiting for me."

Geraldine blinks, then, with a flash of understanding, "Kaji? The Madame?"

Mizu just looks at her, reaches into a drawer, finds a snub- nosed .38, and checks the chamber for bullets, metal clicking, slick, cold in her hand - tucks it in the back of her jeans.

"You know every-fucking-one out there wants you dead right? Must have something to do with ten million dollars hanging over your pretty little head or, I don't know! The fact you went all fucking gung go insane on Violet." Geraldine snaps, horrified at the idea of Mizu meeting with Kaji.

"Relax. It's the Continental. No one will do shit. I'm not going to my death."

"Let me come with you, then," Geraldine says and her voice is breathless, cold, frustrated, her hand shaking in anger as she snubs out her cig.

"No." Mizu rasps, tosses her keys to Ringo,

"Both of you stay here, out of my way and let me do what I have to." she pulls her boots on and tucks a knife in one of them.

"You know his daughter's dead, too, right? And his wife." Ringo's voice cuts through the air like a bullet, and Mizu's hand stills for a moment over the zipper of one boot, but she does not say anything.

Geraldine looks absolutely murderous, hands on her hips and head thrown back as she turns around, willing herself not to scream. fuck- is all she says, fuck fuck... and it's a panicked sound in her throat; because fuck- this is bigger than Mizu, bigger than her and Violet and whatever other storm she's got raging under her skin. They are viscerally, bitterly, and thoroughly fucked.

Ringo just stares between them, the metal of his prosthetic hands clinking as he taps a finger against a wrist, nervous, worried,

Mizu glares over at him and he stops.

"Doesn't matter. Her dad's dead. Her home's gone. I've got hundreds- "

"thousands," Geraldine bitterly cuts in,

"thousands of people on my back because someone's afraid I'm coming for them next, and it's not Fowler, and it's not Kaji or Violet or his fucking daughter."

"They say Fowler had Harkan cut Skeffington's throat open. They say the Adjudicator said he hired you to kill him and The Father." Ringo offers, unsure of what it means,

"The Father?" Mizu mutters, frowning

"I don't know, Mizu... But they said it like it meant something to them..." he says, and Geraldine steps in, says, "Harkan? That fucking pig?"

and "Mizu, I've got to talk to him. I've got to know."

"Know what? You betrayed their trust and they know you or your father did because you were the only ones outside his little clique who knew where to find him. The only reason you are not dead's because you were with me and not with your Father that night." Mizu drawls coolly, not sparing her the cold, hard facts of the reality they're facing.

This isn't a game, and she can't let anything go wrong because she let her guard down, let her walls be cracked open, enough for her to somehow slip through and under her skin...

Like a twig snapping, Geraldine goes still; her eyes hard, and her mouth thinned, pinched and white. Her nostrils flare when she breathes.

"So what." she demands,

and Mizu exhales through her nose, not angrily, touches her chin, gently, like it's something fragile— precious to her. It's only scraps of attention, Geraldine thinks, something to keep her from exploding; Mizu's already gone.

"so nothing. stay here. You're safe here." out of my way where I don't have to be dragged down to keep you safe. goes unuttered.

She does.

When Mizu steps outside, Ringo turns to her, blinking blankly, his mouth slack, a strange smile flitting over his face.

Geraldine measures him with a piercing stare, grits her death against the flood of anger that threatens to upend her, says. Okay.

Okay.

Mizu enters the room through a pair of velvet drapes, the overhead lighting haloing her head, gleaming and pooling over the leather of her jacket.

She's Smoke here, everybody knows him, and as she makes her way through the room between the tables, everyone turns to look at her, offers a handshake, or a simple sharp glance.

On the stage sprawling along one side of the room, the singer sways behind the microphone, singing an old jazz standard, her voice strong, tender, like the wind. Her eyes grow wide at the sight of Mizu, but she never wavers from her tune. In the corner, swathed in silks and velvet, a crimson kimono tied tightly around her slender waist, sits Kaji, the Madame, the manager of the Continental and knower of all; lean, well- dressed, glasses, tailored, precise- she sits with a worn, paperback copy of The Great Gatsby in one hand and a dry sherry in the other. Mizu does not wait for her to invite her to her table, sits down across from her, says, "Kaji."

She lowers the book, and glances across at her with a blank -yet warm- look, the corner of her mouth tucking into a faint half-smile.

"Ghost," she says it in japanese, she always does; then, "my, oh my- will wonders never cease!" and then, sharper, meaningfully, " I'm glad to see you with your head between your shoulders still. it's been a while. "

Mizu's mouth twitches. "That, it has."

a beat, then, she pours herself another drink, calls for another glass with no more than a flick of her wrist and before Mizu can blink, it's there on the table, the waiter walking away as she pours sweet dry sherry for Mizu too. I don't drink, Mizu says plainly, but she pays her no mind says, her voice a low whisper, "what have you done?"

"that's not what I am here for."

"I am not asking you why you are here and frankly, Mizu, I do not wish to know. You highly miscalculate the heights of my position or how much I am willing to risk in the name of my affection for you. "

In Japanese, her voice, is somehow darker, still, but soft, like a girl drowning; a woman held underwater, screaming. "Neither will I try to calculate it. I'm hardly far gone enough to try my hand at your arithmetic. You owe me." she reminds Kaji, calmly, coldly, and Madame stiffens, smiles, that smoky, sharp smile of hers, lips exceedingly narrow, thin, lupine. When she smiles, her teeth gleam like blades.

"You know where he is, I know you do. he's been here three times, crawling like a worm under my nose while I hunted down Violet—”

"lower your voice." Kaji warns, looking around, and Mizu goes on, does not falter, says "you know where he is and you will tell me where he goes when I can't see him."

Kaji sits back, exhales. Under the light sluicing over her, she looks like a statue, cut out of porcelain, immaculately pristine.

"I see... " she does not ask her why she wants him; she straightens the cloth on the table and smooths her dress. She brushes a nonexistent speck from her velvet sleeve. She straightens the ruby necklace on her throat, says, her tongue sharp around the vowels, "you have murder in your eyes," and Mizu sits back, stoic, unaffected, bright blue eyes glinting like shards of ice melting under the candlelight. “he deserves to die.” her voice thickens in her throat, a menacing growl.

Kaji smiles, but it is hollow. She readjusts the bottle on the table, brings her glass to her thin lips, swallows, elegantly, softly.

"Very well," she rises, silks rustling, "Keep your ears pricked and your eyes open, Ghost."

"Done," Mizu drawls back, tips her glass, still filled to the brim with sherry, towards the Madame in salutation before she joins her in her drinking.

"there are eyes on you...from here to the ends of the world, everyone knows what it means: getting their hands on the Ghost." Kaji warns, a meaningful toss of her dark, black eyes towards the bar, and Mizu pretends to smile, as though she's told her something worth a smile, her eyes unerringly stealing a glance at the half empty bar. He's got her back on her but Mizu instantly recognizes him. Vlad. The pig's driver; Harkan's right hand.

"Come, I'll walk with you to your car..." Kaji offers, and as she moves her slim hand, the silks of her kimono flutter, catch the light,

Mizu hesitates, but only for a second; and then, something's snapping inside her, like a vein torn, gushing; she can't walk away from here with him still breathing, and the thought tears through her like a knife, hungered for blood, blood, blood.

"My bike." Mizu corrects her, tosses her head back and slams back the drink, swallowed in a single gulp. "And I am not leaving yet."

Kaji watches her as she stands up and walks to the bar, sits at the very edge of it, not sparing the world around her a second glance.

Something inside of her, too, snaps, and when she walks up to the lobby of the hotel, Kaji whispers to her concierge to keep an eye on the ghost that haunts their bar. "Keep an eye on him;" what she does not say is keep him safe; from himself; from what he might do. He understands, anyway.

Mizu drinks in silence for a long, dark, brooding time, grunting when the bartender tries to make small talk; the silent, stoic mask of her face, almost unsettling. She slips a gold coin to her, leaning over the bar and whispering into her ear, her mouth tickling her cheek when she pulls away, and to the world around her it seems like Smoke's found a girl he likes enough to keep him company for an hour or two; not that she has asked her to keep refilling her glass with water and juice and not a drop of alcohol.

She can feel his eyes on her, Vlad's and his man's, whoever the fuck he is, like tiny teeth pinching her side, like wasps snapping at her fingers, begging to be crushed; after midnight, she drags herself to her feet and staggers to the bathroom. They lift their glasses in salutation to Smoke as she passes, grin, and it's grotesque, how their teeth shimmer, how their mouths slant, ugly-bright things, that make her sick. Mizu pretends to stagger sloppily towards them, loops her arms around their necks and hugs her close to her, laughing darkly. "Smoke," one of them chuckles, says, "it's been a while, prizrak. Good to see you showin' your face 'round here."

"Yeah." Mizu rasps, "you must have missed me something terrible, mm?" she asks, squeezes their necks tightly, more a threat than a hug. "Tell you what..." she slurs, and it comes out like a warning, a dark growl, the words tumbling from her mouth in a rush, "next round's on me." she staggers back a step or two, and without a warning, slams her fist so hard against their table, their drinks spill over, sloshing vodka all over both of them, glass shattering. She uncurls her first and places two gold coins on the table, neatly atop the shards of glass. "Enjoy." she says, and her voice is pulsing, cold, numb, like static humming. She doesn't look back as she walks away, but out of sight, she hastens her steps, tears the door of the bathroom open and pours into one of the stalls, unzips her jeans, and with a hiss of pure frustration, she removes the pistol from her back pocket and slips it between her legs, tucking it in her underwear. They'll never look for it there.

Exhaling through her nose, she ambles back to the bar and dons her jacket, pretends to struggle with the zipper, tosses a coin to the bartender. Goodnight, she slurs, leaning over to pinch her cheek. She pretends to forget her phone on the bar, takes three steps and comes back for it, laughing hotly, rum soaked and loose. She nods towards Vlad, then turns around and makes her way to the lobby and out into the cold night air.

Mizu, purposefully ducks into an alley, the opposite way from where she's supposed to be going, walks down towards the port.

It does not take long for them to come for her.

A car slows down near her, and Vlad rolls the window down, says, "Hey, Smoke. Come on, man. It's late. We'll give you a ride."

Mizu's step falters, and she blinks at them slowly, turns to leave, but hesitates.

"Don't bother, I'm good. I'm okay." she waves them away, but just like she's expected, the bait lures the prey, they insist.

"Come on! you bought us vodka, brat. we give you a ride. Only fair." Vlad howls in laughter, his accent made thicker and rougher with the drink.

"I'm walking." Mizu slurs, and quickens her step, hears one of them say, Pull over here.

They kill the engine and step out of the car, spit something in russian through their teeth and follow her.

"What you doing, walking? Come on, let us take you home. It's colder than my dick in cunt made of ice out here. Get in the car. "

Mizu keeps on walking, pretends she does not sense it when Vlad's hand shoots out, grabs her shoulder and spins her around, laughing, splashes of spittle in her face; she shoves him off, eyes darkening, and he lifts his hands up in the air, says, "Okay, easy; easy..." as they grab her shoulders, pat her down, looking for her gun. "We're gonna have you home in no time, blyat."

Check his boots, Vlad growls in Russian and Mizu pretends to sway in her feet, pretends to flare up in anger when they dig out her knife, sneer about him being unarmed.

"That's mine." she growls, and Vlad says she doesn't want him slicing a vein open now huh, brother? Come on.

She comes on.

She follows them to the car, lets them pour her into the back sit, arms stiff at her sides.

The drive is slow, there's traffic, and Mizu pretends to doze off; they hand her a beer, and she takes a sip, laughs at their jokes, the forced, hollow familiarity. Some russian song is playing on the radio and the beer is sweating in her hand, she can feel the wetness of it trickling down her wrist.

One of the russians asks her incredulously if he's got a woman stashed away somewhere; you smell like pussy, he grins, sniffing the air like a dog, Geraldine's perfume still clinging to her.

''probably in a freezer...'' Vladmir, comments, laughing.

Mizu does not answer. She does not smile. Apathetically she slowly pulls her leather jacket on, unzips her jeans.

He makes a left and shifts gears, turns the car toward the Red Circle; he must be at the club, then, Mizu thinks; they must operate right out of that shithole. The Red Circle. Right under her nose.

We getting him to Harkan? one of them mutters, confirming her suspicion, and the other says, in russian, where else?

The bounty? the first asks,

fuck the bounty. They park the car in a dark alley behind the Circle, and Mizu groans, her head rolling to the side. She hears the low beeping of a phone, static filling the car.

Help me get him out of the car.

From the half open window in the front, she can hear a car driving into the lot, rear wheels smoking as they struggle to grip the road.

She swallows; her new understanding tells her there are too many swiftly compressed decisions in this fight hanging in the air before her, for any clear channel ahead to show itself. She must move. So she does.

Hey, she slurs, and as she sways forward in her seat, the russian looks back at her snaps, what? just as she shoves her gun into Vlad's head and fires a shot right through his skull, splashing him with his blood, and he screams, eyes wide with horror, scrabbles for the door, but Mizu's rage incarnate, she's angry, blood pounding in a blind fury, and both hands going with every ounce of power she can muster; she's on him within seconds, grabs his hair and pulls back his head, shoving the mouth of her gun directly beneath his right eye, growls, "where's Harkan?"

"You'll never find him." he spits through his teeth in Russian. Mizu answers by slamming his head against the dashboard , breaking his nose, and he howls, blood streaming down his face, into his mouth. Unflinchingly, she lowers the gun and grabs at his arm, twisting so viciously that her throat vibrates with her howl; she's angry; she breaks his shoulder clean off the bone, breaking his arm with a dry snap and he's roaring in pain, choking back howls, but she keeps holding his arm painfully in place, growls, "where the fuck is he?"

Outside, she can hear boots on gravel, another car ripping through the lot, wheels skimming violently as it comes to a stop.

"you are out of time, Mr Ghost," he howls in russian, "tik-tok, tik-tok," wet, shallow gasps, and Mizu's trembling in rage, eyes unblinking; she grabs his head and slams it into Vlad's crushed skull, shattering his face into the torn bones that stick from his skull, over and over again, until her hands are crimson with blood and he slumps over, limp and heavy in the passenger seat. Grabbing her knife from his pocket, she swings the door open and shoves Vlad's dead body out of the car, blind with fury; she can only see that line again; that bright, straight line that leads from A to B, from here, to then. Perched behind the wheel, she shifts gears, and furiously slams her foot down onto the gas, hitting a long patch of gravel, shifting, spinning the wheel, and skidding -while remaining in full control- as the wheels skim over the earth.

The gunmen pouring out of the second car react to the sound of the engine's roar, the wheels smoking, the two nearest it's approach dropping to a knee, aiming, and firing. Bullets crash into the windshield -a round slashing into the headrest, clipping her ear- and Mizu slams her foot down harder, barreling down towards them; she is angry; furious; she feels another bullet slam into the car, half shattering the engine block before the front left tire blows. She loses control of the jeep, which fishtails wildly, but she regains it, growling, shifting, slamming into a sedan, crushing two gunmen before it cartwheels through their midst, killing three more before coming to a violent stop on its side.

Groaning, she fishes around for her gun and drags herself out of the car through the shattered window, feels the stitches in her side throb. Mizu growls; she is furious.

She is on her feet and on them within seconds, shooting anything that moves, spilling blood, furious, enraged, screaming; each target receives two well-placed bullets to ensure incapacitation. She never slows, never misses, and will not stop; she is furious. The men scatter in a panic, fleeing towards the club - a number of whom are shot in the back- while those choosing to shoot back are cut down in a blink. Once emptied, Mizu drops the clip of her pistol, kneels, sweeps a fallen gun , levels, fires, again and again, always moving;

and then she sees him, Harkan, skin blotched and jaw scraped raw, cut open, he must have been in one of the cars, his suit is scarlet with blood; and she can't see past him, the terribly grin of that mouth, teeth yellow, glinting; Geraldine on her knees, screaming (she's never heard anyone scream like this.) The distance between them grows smaller, the passengers of two of the sedans parked around him emerge with semi-automatic weapons but before either of them can fire, Mizu fires off four shots, killing them each with a pair of bullets before firing until empty, teeth snarling, she's blind with rage, screaming Harkan's name, wanting him to know, she's coming for him, killing two drivers, and one passenger, leaving one driver barrelling towards her, covered in his passenger's blood, eyes wide with horror as the car crashes into a wall and explodes into flames.

Screams fill the night, and she watches as more of his men pour out of the club, as he disappears into a car, and Mizu's cocking her gun and running after it, firing shot after shot into every part of it that she can reach, shattering its windows; but they drive away, and she's left trembling in silent rage, blood frothing at her mouth, her lip torn from a shard of glass. Gun empty, she tosses it aside, lunges for one of the rifles laying on the ground, snatches it up, points the hot end at the back of the car furiously driving away, and empties it into the backseat, blindly, unflinchingly.

Bullets easily punch through the doors and windows, riddling the dash. Blood spatters the seats but she can't tell who's dead, and she is hissing, panting, tossing the gun aside and running for the car at her left, the lot's swarming with Harkan's men now, and she is diving behind the wheel within the blink of an eye, unerring, unstoppable, turns the key, revs the engine, slams her foot down on the gas and crashes through the parking lot gate of the building, tires squealing as the jeep pulls a one-eighty, righting itself before leaping out onto the street, furiously gaining momentum, as a trio of heavily-modified skylines appear and take chase. Collected, focused, Mizu glances into the rearview mirror, takes the pistol in her left hand, shifts, and viciously spins the wheel turning to face the oncoming vehicles. She cocks the gun and shifts again, crushes the gas pedal underfoot, rear wheels smoking as they struggle to grip the road and she empties the gun into the cars ripping down the street towards her; one bullet, two, three, four shots through the windshield and a skull, a throat, tearing a chest open. She groans, exhales through her nose, shifts gear and as she swerves the car around with one hand, she fires a shot right through the skull of the last driver that comes crashing into the side of her car.

She revs the engine and violently shifts the car around, comes to a screeching halt before she hops out of it, runs down a dark alley on her left. She zips up her jacket and makes her way down to the other side of the street, shoves her way into a taxi, growls out an address.

When morning comes, no one's sure who's ripped through the Red Circle.

When morning comes The Pig's dead, his throat shattered, torn open by a bullet. His car washes up on the banks of the river; his driver dead.

Something tells the world that it was him, anyway.

When she comes back, her flat is dark and empty, the bed made. She calls out for Geraldine, but she does not answer.

In the bathroom, she finds her hair, fistfuls of her black curls in the trash, cuttings of it into a Ziploc, and a used up dye bottle and gloves, smatterings of red dye, ruby fire, carnelian, like a flame; the scissors on the sink.

In the kitchen, a bowl of ramen gone cold, the ones she silently watched her make right out of a package from 7/11 one sleepless night, and somehow burning those too. She had not laughed to her face, but afterwards Mizu had heard her snort to herself when she stepped out of the kitchen in cool, composed frustration at her failure.

Next to her bed, on the night table, a glass of water and a note sticking to it. It's got a lipstick stain on it, a parting kiss, rouge and pink and velvet like her.

It reads,

Consequences.

The snake on her wall is gone.

#IM IN TOO DEEP TO STOP NOW #blue eye samurai mizu #blue eye samurai #mizu #bes mizu #john wick tag.#killing strangers.#I AM DONE. im insane about this story UNFORTUNATELY but if i have to look at this in my drafts one more time i will scream and delete it #writing tag.

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